


River of Darkness

by sharpistheblade



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batman Kisses Batman I Guess?, Batman as a separate entity, First Kiss, First Time, Inner world, Introspection, M/M, Tulpas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29881695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharpistheblade/pseuds/sharpistheblade
Summary: Bruce creates Batman out of sheer will and focus. Batman is just a shadow at first, but it grows alongside Bruce though the years, through the hardships, the losses and the horrors and, he soon realizes, becomes the one and only person (creature? Manifestation? Just a product of his madness?) he trusts and, much to his delight and dismay, loves.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	River of Darkness

**Tulpa:** a [mental construct](https://tulpa.fandom.com/wiki/Mental_construct) that can eventually appear as an autonomous, sentient entity to the practitioner. The concept of tulpas stems from Tibetan Buddhism and denotes a practice through which monks would primarily create tulpas to overcome attachments, such as phobias and desires.  
Some of the more fleshed-out tulpas can have a life of their own and become separate [conscious](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Consciousness) [entities](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Entity) living within their creator’s mind. They are capable of independent thoughts, actions, memories, and feelings. 

The exact nature of a tulpa is still unknown. 

  
  
_What is alive and what isn’t and what should we do about it?_  
_Theories: about the nature of the thing. And of the soul. Because people die._  
_The fear: that nothing survives._  
_The greater fear: that something does._  
  


_Richard Siken,_ The Language of The Birds

Bruce did not understand it but, since a very early age, he’d always been followed by shadows. 

Not because they chased him but because he often retreated in them and found comfort in the solace they gave, in how their presence could be used to shield him from daily life, how they always seemed to wrap around him like a heavy blanket. 

He never needed a night light and never complained about sleeping with the curtains pulled all the way to the end, in complete darkness. 

_Darkness is safe,_ something in his mind told him and, even though it was often that he saw the shape of a man in his room, a silhouette that did not reflect light at all, he was not afraid of him. He spent the time between being awake and falling asleep staring at that unmoving body, trying to guess if he saw horns or ears, if what floated behind the man’s back were wings or something else.  
In spite of the image he created in his mind about the man he saw in the darkness, he did not give him a story -he was not the creative type, not in that sense at least- but Bruce did give him a purpose, without realizing it. 

It would take him a few more years to realize that what had come to pass the evening he fell into the cave, was the catalyst for a breath of life he’d not been aware he put into motion since long ago.

* * *

He still remembers, even after so many years, being swarmed by bats; he remembers their fleshy wings touching his hands as he covered his face in fear, he remembers the deafening sounds that escaped from their mouths and he also remembers the silhouette of a man made of shadows walking through that swarm and the bats flying around it, avoiding contact, as if in reverence. He’d wanted to scream for his parents, but his parents were gone. Alfred would never hear him from where he was. But the shadows would. 

“Please help me!” Bruce had cried out, arms still half covering his face. The sliver of light that penetrated from beyond the cave's opening didn’t give the silhouette a lot of detail but Bruce knew it from the start it was the Shadowman, _his_ Shadowman, who knelt down on one knee and put a hand on the back of his head.  
He still remembers well how that hand felt: soft as a feather for a moment and then as solid as any other, as the fingers splayed over his skin.  
“What do you need me to do?” Came the question, asked in a voice that was deep yet slightly hoarse, like the voice of someone who had not spoken in a very long time.  
“I’m afraid. Please help me.”  
As Bruce uttered those words, the dark silhouette began to lose its ethereal quality somehow: it became fleshed-out in a way he couldn’t understand, couldn’t really see, as he stood there in the midst of enraged and confused bats flying left and right, but he definitely _felt_ it, like a knot untying itself in his chest.  
“I’ll keep you safe.”

Strong arms set themselves on the back of his knees and around his shoulders and Bruce was lifted up into the air like he weighed nothing and the bats parted to the sides, flying upwards, circling the roof of the cave like a tornado while the Shadowman carried him away.  
Bruce could feel pain all over his body, fractures, cuts and bruises forming but, even through his torment, he could see sharp horns - no, _ears_ , sharp _ears,_ and ice-blue eyes that looked straight ahead with purpose. 

* * *

He’s never alone anymore and, though he’s young, he knows to keep quiet about Shadowman. He is well-aware not everyone has a friend like his and, though he can hear him often in his mind, he never replies, unless they are alone.  
Shadowman is a man of few words but that is only because he doesn’t know many, so Bruce locks himself in the library and spends the rest of the summer reading the dictionary out loud, for two hours every evening before bed. He dog-ears the hefty book at the top corner, if he stopped at a definition above the middle of the page or at the bottom corner if he stopped at one past the lower half of it. 

Shadowman slips from the shadows after Alfred turns off the lights and Bruce talks to him about his day, even if he knows that the dark silhouette has seen everything through his eyes anyway. But Shadowman is patient - he listens, nods and rarely interrupts.

Bruce asks him if he can hug him, during the nights he’s sad but the man passes his hand through the wooden columns of his four poster bed and tells him that’s not possible.  
“But you saved me from the cave and carried me outside where Alfred found me.”  
“That was different,” Shadowman says, walking around his bed slowly, with measured steps, hands behind his back “because your will was strong in that moment, without distractions, focused - and it gave me form and purpose.

Bruce frowns and further buries his face in the pillow, trying hard to understand. He won’t be able to, for a while longer, however. 

* * *

The years pass, like a river, and Bruce maintains a social life just enough to keep up appearances but the expensive watch on his wrist is not a reminder of time lost but of the night to come - he waits for the darkness with the excitement one reserves for secret lovers. 

The Shadowman doesn’t come to life until darkness falls and the shadows become thick and heavy with promise. It’s then that he emerges from a dark corner or from Bruce’s own shadow as it hits a flat surface, separating himself from it. 

Bruce is almost 18 now but the Shadowman didn’t change: he still stands a head taller than him, always a head taller, and his mask is the same and so is his suit, in the semblance of the bats that had terrified Bruce so much when he was a child, when he fractured his leg and shoulder after falling in a dark cave.  
He has to tilt his head back slightly when speaking to him if he stands too close but when the Shadowman hovers in his wake, Bruce feels like he can take on the entire world with his bare hands. 

They talk about everything - Bruce sits, legs dangling on the edge of his bedroom window, and he rambles, while the Shadowman sticks to his shadows and replies with the truth. His assessments of Bruce are brutal sometimes, but he sees the truth behind them. At the end of the day, the Shadowman is the only one Bruce doesn’t argue with because he knows it’s futile: what can you say against someone who knows the very essence of your mind? Your every thought and emotion? What can you say against someone who you’re not even sure _is real_? 

He chooses to not think about that part, however. If he’s gone mad or not, he doesn’t care because the only thing he can think of during the day -when the sun shines on his face and his group of friends insist they go out for drinks- is when does the sun set and how long it will take until darkness will fall over Gotham.   
When he’s out to dance and flirt with girls he’s not interested in, he slips outside, on the back alleys where he knows Shadowman is waiting. He steps out of the shadows and into the thick steam that blows out from the sewers and tired water pipes. 

Sometimes they talk, other times they don’t and choose instead to lean with their backs onto the nearest wall and look up towards what they can see of the night time sky. 

Life’s a whirlwind for Bruce when he’s 18 - he rebels, he tugs and pulls at forces beyond him and he is content to be in the eye of the storm because if he steps out and away from it, who knows what he’ll be left with? That’s a territory he doesn’t want to cross into. So he stalls his departure best way he can but it is true that, when it’s just him and Shadowman looking at the sky in an alley filled with dumpsters and broken bottles, that’s when the storm’s the calmest. 

* * *

“When will you leave?” Bruce asks Shadowman one night, as they look up to what little they can see of the stars. Gotham is building up and the neons, the cables and the advertisement zeppelins are slowly drowning out the view of the Moon.  
Bruce puts his hands behind his back and leans into the cold wall, the loud bass from the club still sending deep vibrations through the bricks. It had rained earlier and his sneakers sink into a puddle that mirrors the pink and blue neon sign that rests on the opposite building, about two storeys above them.  
“Leave where?” Shadowman asks.  
Bruce is standing bathed in the neon light while he rests in the shadow of the building. Their bodies are separated by a sharp line that divides each from light and shadow in such a cliché manner Bruce finds it a little ridiculous. He shrugs, eyes upwards.  
“Wherever. You will have to leave at some point too, won’t you?”   
“I have nowhere else to go.”  
“You can go anywhere. Can you not? Do you not have a form now?” He finally turns to face the Shadowman, head tilted to the side slightly. His eyes narrow a little, waiting for the answer. 

The Shadowman has not touched him since that fateful evening when he fell in the cave and he always seemed to slide through walls and objects the rest of the time, but a week before, Bruce had felt Shadowman's cape brush against his hand as they walked side by side across the manor grounds. It felt real, as real as anything could be and as soon as it happened, Shadowman stepped away from him, keeping his distance as he always did  
But Bruce can’t read anything on his masked face at that moment, it’s rare that he does at any point to begin with.   
“I have no desire to leave you.”

It doesn’t mean he will not, at some point, Bruce thinks. He’s thought about it a lot recently, about how what his mind has created might unleash itself upon the world and how. He’s also wondered how mad he’s now become and realized he doesn’t really care because he’s not hurting anyone, because Shadowman is all he’s got left.  
Bruce thinks about giving him his freedom jealously, like he would about a mistress the Shadowman yearns to run to. However, would it mean that he will be free to not live in the eye of the storm anymore? Or that it would swallow him whole?

“Do you have any desires at all?”  
“Very few that are not the same as yours.” Comes the reply in the same deadpan tone that doesn’t hint at any hidden emotion.   
Bruce huffs a little and looks away, focuses on the way the wet pavement reflects the colorful neon lights. Annoyance and sadness mesh inside him unpleasantly. Yes, he’s afraid but he’d never admit it - he’s afraid of being left alone, of having no one to rely upon but himself for the rest of his life and it frightens him to no end because he knows that, once the cracks will start to show, he won’t be able to mend them all in good time. 

The fingers that touch his chin take him by surprise - they are gloved now. They didn’t used to be but the older Bruce got, the more the Shadowman armored himself, like some sort of knight, his dark grey suit slowly inching towards pure black, with a symbol like wings that spread across his chest like a splash of liquid.   
Those fingers turn his face to the side and Bruce reluctantly faces the Shadowman. This is the closest he’s been to him since he’d been held in his arms in the cave, 8 years before. As if on cue, the rain starts again, beating a steady tattoo over the alley, patting a rhythm on the shoulders of his leather jacket and something else unknots inside Bruce’s chest as soft, determined lips meet his own.   
It can’t be real, but it _feels_ real and he allows the intrusion while his heart drums violently, like a call to arms. He shivers and exhales with a shudder into the warm mouth that opens his own and it feels too soft, too wet for it all to be a figment of his imagination; he can feel himself fall into the depths of something he can’t explain. 

He takes the plunge from the knife edge and steps away from his spot in the neon light and into the darkness, hands reaching and touching what feels like real flesh and bone, fingers digging into fabric, squeezing into arms that tense under the pressure.   
The whirlwind in his mind is silenced into obedience and he closes his eyes, grateful, mesmerized. The cape wraps around him, shielding him from the rain, from the world, from the darkness, into the darkness. 

* * *

It doesn’t happen that same night but months later because, if there is anything Bruce and Shadowman have in common, is their patience and reluctance when it comes to the unique situation they share.

He doesn’t remember the date, just that it was autumn and the wind was howling outside.   
He remembers complete darkness and he remembers how the mattress dipped next to him as a body much larger than his own occupied it, how a gloved hand touched his neck and how that same hand, after it had undressed him, pushed inside him for what felt like hours, until he was coiling with sharp, small pains and shots of pleasure. 

Bruce knew how it felt to have someone else make a residence inside you, knew how it felt to share yourself with someone else in a way much more primal than just sharing an apartment or a room but that night was the first time he understood how and what it means to have someone else inside you in the most literal sense of the word.   
Inside his mind _and_ inside his body - he could have died then, just from sensory overload alone. Shadowman’s voice resonated in his mind and in his ear, echoing with all the words Bruce wanted to hear.  
He pushed into him inch by inch, patiently, his cock throbbing, warm and as real as could be and when he began to move on top of Bruce, he dove into his mind, feeling what he felt and in return, Bruce felt what Shadowman did and when he finally came, it was so intense and violent, it brought him to such a height of pleasure he felt like he was free falling when he was done. 

He almost collapsed, hands and knees weak, if not for Shadowman’s arm, that wrapped itself around his stomach and held him still, set him to rest on the sweat and cum-stained sheets. 

When he woke up the next morning, the sky was grey and rain tapped at his windows peacefully. Bruce had stared into the grim weather for a few moments, before he moved and realized he was a little sore. If he needed any more proof that what had happened, had really happened and it had not been just a figment of a mad and deranged mind, the dry traces of cum on the inside of his thighs were evidence enough.   
“It will get better.” Shadowman’s voice had echoed in his mind when he sat up and felt a sharp pain shoot through some of his most tender places. ” ** _We_** ’ll get better at it.”  
There was an apology in his voice that did not finish in words, but that was okay. 

Bruce still remembers clearly that in that moment, he sat on the edge of the bed, hands relaxed, pressing into the mattress and that his lips curled into a smile, his heart awash with relief that he was not alone, grateful for the unspoken but implied promise that Shadowman was going to stay.  
“I know.” 

* * *

“...I shall become a bat.” Bruce says and the library shifts. No, _the darkness shifts_ and the hand that rests on his shoulder squeezes it lightly, in reassurance. He can see the Shadowman’s reflection in the bookcase across the room, the one with glass doors that safeguards the antique book collection. 

The Moon shines at just the right angle, enough to light up half of Shadowman’s masked face, enough to reflect a shimmer over the spot where his cape rests on his broad shoulders. Bruce realizes that he’s not the one that spoke those words - it’s his mouth moving but it’s not his voice. Blue eyes meet blue and he sees the splash that looks like wings, that muddled shape across Shadowman’s chest move with a life of its own.  
It takes Bruce a moment to make out the shape it rearranges itself into but when it does, he is well-aware that the course of his future has been altered. 

* * *

When he stalks the rooftops, he’s in the background, feeling and watching his body move as if from afar, and, for a few years, he remembers the nights in a dream-like way, half hazy and lacking detail. It’s Shadowman - no, he’s **_Batman_** now: it’s _Batman_ who gives him the idea of creating a recording device that can keep track of what transpires at night, because he doesn’t want Bruce to forget, doesn’t want him to become lazy and useless. 

What Batman does, Bruce has to see and know, and vice versa. 

Batman supports him the first time he walks into a murder scene - keeps Bruce’s knees from buckling when they walk into the basement room where a girl had been kept prisoner for years, raped, beaten and abused alongside her baby and where she’d eventually been killed. Batman keeps Bruce steady when the smell of rot and decay penetrates his nostrils, when they both analyze the blood splatters across the wall and he guides his trembling legs over what’s left of the two bodies. 

He’s the one that holds a child in his arms, catatonic from all the sexual abuse inflicted on him by his captor, while Bruce cries inside his mind, unwilling to look at the countless marks scattered over the pale skin. 

Batman knows the right words to tell Gordon and Bruce is the one who advises that he can be trusted. Bruce takes in his Robins but it’s Batman who stands by their side at night while they swing from building to building. He doesn’t romanticize those shadow-filled hours at all but Bruce still commits to memory those moments with his Robins, images clipped to the walls of his mind, of his little birds, forever stuck in mid-flight. 

Bruce is the one who stops his fists when he thinks it’s enough - from the inside, his hand stretches out, phantom-like, and wraps its fingers around Batman’s glove. Their fingers intertwine for a second in a graceful dance only the two of them can feel, before he re-assumes control and cuffs the person beneath them, instead of beating them to death. 

Bruce doesn’t believe in forgiveness, in second chances or that bad people can be turned around and neither does Batman, but in between them there is a point of balance, a tinge of something like hope, that tilts almost always on Bruce’s side - so he stops both of them from crossing a line that blurs more and more with each year that passes. 

* * *

He is not a child anymore. He is also not a young adult either and he should have stopped believing in pretty much anything by now and perhaps he has and he’s just moving out of habit but he _does_ believe in whatever he shares with this man whose real face he’s never even seen. This himself that is not himself, this life within a life. 

* * *

  
  


Barbara is the first one who hugs him, a real hug, like only young girls can give, full of love and affection, with a little squeeze peppered in. She’s seventeen, two heads shorter than Bruce and she doesn’t know how to say thank you without acts of physical affection. Batman stirs inside Bruce uncomfortably when that happens because he doesn’t like it when other people touch Bruce but he keeps quiet and lets it slide only because, well, it’s _Barbara_ and to be mad at Barbara is something not even Batman can bring himself to do. He knows she means well. They all do. 

It’s harder when it gets sexual, however, when Bruce has to play the part and flirt his way into someone’s bed, when he has to undress a beautiful body of a beautiful woman he has no real interest in. 

He has no real interest in any woman and Batman knows that but he is also acutely aware of the role he needs to play so Bruce tags along, only half present, on the verge of disassociating each time. When he feels that Bruce can’t play pretend anymore, when he sees his cock going soft and his movements becoming sluggish and forced, he whispers in his mind words that only they can hear, words no one ever told Bruce, in the tone of voice he likes to hear them being spoken. Sometimes it works but sometimes it doesn’t and that’s when Batman has to gently push him back and take control. 

It’s not always the best idea: he doesn’t like it either, he’s rough and he sprints through having sex like he’s trying to decimate an enemy, not offer a girl a good time they should both, technically, be enjoying. He hurt a few but Bruce had been very good at lying, very good at telling them it was hard for him to control himself because of how beautiful they were, or something along those lines. Some of them believed him - others he had to go down on and stay there for a long time, until they forgot all about it. 

They’re both annoyed with each other afterwards, for hours, before they finally merge again. 

Batman doesn’t need him anymore - Bruce could stay behind because now, at 35 years old, his childhood companion, his friend, his lover, has fleshed out into a life of his own.  He has no need for Bruce’s mind by his side, or his body. He’s come into being as if he had been born into this world just like Bruce has been: from inside a woman of flesh and blood.   
But they always chase across Gotham, under the night’s sky, still together, regardless of that and it’s often that Batman still speaks in his mind when they’re alone or even when Bruce is in company, to offer advice or point something out to him. 

He’s always been there and Bruce can’t imagine how life would be without him. He wonders again - when will he leave? But he doesn’t give any signs that he will.  Yet, when it’s the two of them and Batman walks around the cave, keeping his brain busy with a case, Bruce watches him with a deep longing pressing in his chest and wishes he’d have the courage to ask him to stay. 

Stay as in _making a home_. Stay as in _as two_. Stay as in _sharing a bed_. Stay as in-

Batman looks at him over his shoulder as Bruce things that and he looks away, breath caught in his throat.  His heart hurts but he’s soon to turn 36 and he’s past believing in something as rudimentary as love. 

* * *

It used to be that when Bruce needed him, Batman would, sooner or later find his way to his room and fuck him, if he wanted to be fucked, or make love to him, if that’s what he needed. Though none of them ever verbalized the differences between the two, Bruce was acutely aware there was a distinction, at least as far as he was concerned. 

Then, some years later after their first night together, it was Batman who came into his room, unprompted, his hands reaching out for Bruce through the darkness. When Bruce was too tired, he muttered he can go ahead if he wants to but he won’t really participate. Very rarely, Batman did go through with it but he usually didn’t - he seemed to prefer his full participation and most of the times, Bruce did not refuse him.  
It had filled his heart with joy when he’d started to come to him by his own accord, when he began to make demands with his body -but never his voice- and Bruce was more than willing to give in to them. 

What this had become, he didn’t know but, for what it was worth, aside from the one night stands they both had to keep up with for their own sakes, he’d always been loyal.

It was really dumb, Bruce knew, but it was the honest truth, the fact that he loved him, this product of his mind whose face he’d never even seen unmasked. Perhaps it was a form of narcissism, though as far as he was concerned, he never saw Batman as himself - the other man was a head taller than him, his shoulders were wider, he was much heavier and his voice an octave lower than Bruce’s.   
In his mind, he’d always been a separate entity. And, as a separate entity, he too had his needs, perhaps though more primal and driven by just pleasure, not emotion. Bruce yearned for him, in the most secret chambers of his heart, where he was sure the other man couldn’t look in, but, though Batman was his own creation, it didn’t mean he felt the same. 

So Bruce held on to that suffering, that longing and stifled it every time it threatened to blossom in his heart.  What ever was he if not a creature of repression? He'd always been good at it. 

* * *

  
  


It’s a week past his 39th birthday and he really couldn’t care less about the party, but he’s always had one and Gotham’s elite has grown too used to them for him to stop them. It’s a good opportunity for everyone to network, interact and make connections, share gossip and exchange cheques for charities that can sway both their social status and the affections of the public. 

Dick’s surrounded by three middle-aged ladies that are almost hunched over the weight of their diamonds and his silent pleas for help go unheard because Tim is laughing at the show from behind a plate of cake and Barbara is enjoying the attention of an older gentleman Bruce wholeheartedly approves of, should Barbara show any actual interest.   
She winks at him as she sips from her champagne glass when she notices he is slowly inching towards the terrace door. She knows him well by now, knows when he needs to be left alone with just a glance, so she does her best to draw attention to herself as he grabs his coat, throws it over his shoulders and disappears outside as smoothly as he possibly can. 

He exhales his warm breath into the cold, early January air and rubs his hands together. The lights are all on inside, he can see his guests but they can’t see him so he walks away from the house at a relaxed pace, hands in his pockets, listening to the soothing sound of his shoes crunching the snow.   
It’s a surprisingly clear night for January and, far away from Gotham’s ever evolving sky-scrapers, he can faintly see traces of the Milky Way above his head, dissolving somewhere beyond the hill where the elevation drops. 

Bruce walks slowly towards the large oak tree that is almost as old as the Wayne name and allows the icy air to penetrate his nostrils as he inhales the scent of snow deeply into his lungs. When he hears another set of steps walk across the snow, he’s not surprised to find Batman walk by his side. It's been years now since he's been able to walk around by himself, without being tethered to Bruce's presence. He does what he pleases, out of sight, always a step ahead of anyone who might discover him, save for Bruce - he allows him the pleasure of finding him in the cave or on the grounds sometimes, even if they both can sense each other's presence easily.   
Bruce made a new winter suit for him and he notices Batman is currently wearing it. He’s happy when he can do something for him, something that makes this life Bruce has brought him into, at least a little more comfortable.

“Too much for you?” Bruce asks, putting his hands in the pockets of his wool coat.   
“You know I’m not much for artifice and that empty talks make me tired. Didn’t think you’d need me tonight, so I went out for a while. It’s good for people to see Batman and Bruce Wayne in separate places at the same time, on occasion.”  
Bruce nods, because he’s right. They never do that too often, so as not to arise any suspicions from the Robins or Alfred, but when they can, they go ahead with it. The more distance Bruce can put between him and Batman, the better. Just in case. 

They walk in silence until they reach the oak tree, where Bruce stops, fingers curiously searching for something on the tree trunk. He finds the letter B etched into it, somewhere beneath the lowest branch. Why do young boys feel the need to engrave the fact that they’ve been here or there, in some way or another, he wonders?

“I want to tell you happy birthday,” Batman says, so suddenly that Bruce jerks his head to the side to face him “but you know I believe birthdays are redundant.”  
“Then don’t.” He shrugs because he really doesn’t care. Birthdays are just reminders the body is slowly caving in and that the grave is getting closer and Bruce is not too fond of either those certain facts of life.   
He steps ahead, ready to continue their walk, satisfied that most of the weight of the company he’d been forced to keep that night was slowly beginning to wash off him but Batman wraps his fingers around his lower arm and stops him in his tracks. He takes that step back and waits, curious to hear what most likely is new information about a case. But to his surprise, that's not what it's all about:  
“I want to give you a gift.” The words stick into the January air like ice crystals and Bruce doesn’t register all of them at the same time, in the same context, until a moment later, with surprise written all across his face. He recovers from it decently well.  
“Okay…”

Batman takes off his gloves and places them on the nearest branch. Bruce has not seen those hands without gloves on in a very, very long time - he’s felt them, many times, but only through complete darkness, when it was just the two of them in his bedroom. He’s felt those hands, those arms, wrap around him gently or forcefully, tracing a path for kisses or for bruises. But he hasn’t seen them since he was a teenager, back when Batman first began to gain more and more detailed and visible armor, instead of just the coils of shadow he was usually wrapped in.   
Batman turns his palms up and Bruce realizes he wants his hands in his own, so he offers them to him. They are too warm for the weather outside and his thumbs rub the back of Bruce’s hands in a lazy attempt to warm them up. Or perhaps it’s just affectionate. Bruce can’t tell. The man before him is hard to read. 

What he does next is no less surprising: he brings Bruce’s hands to his face and sets them over his mask, holds them there for a moment and he finds with surprise that Batman is tense. So he lets him find his footing, watches him as he drops his hands to his sides after a few long seconds. His eyes drop to the ground, as if it’s too hard for him to watch Bruce’s reaction.   
Bruce, for his part, is frozen, as he realizes the implications of the gift he’s being given.   
The whirlwind in his mind raises to the surface, infused with new life and he talks before he can stop himself:  
“Is this a parting gift? Will you leave now?” He asks, with a tinge of anger.   
Batman frowns and looks back up at him, body incredibly tense beneath Bruce’s fingers:  
“I will **_never_ **leave you, Bruce.” He says, pressing on every word, speaking between his teeth, like it pains him to do so. 

Bruce inhales deeply for a moment, then he slips his thumbs beneath the mask, over his cheekbones. He stops for a second but the man before him doesn’t budge, he’s stone and he’s made a decision he won’t back out of. So Bruce continues and sees his eyes close when he pulls the mask off from his eyes, watches them open again, meeting his, blue on blue, as he lets the mask fall limply on the other man’s back. 

His heart thunders in his ears and he takes in the sight before him both elated and curious.  
Batman is Bruce and yet he’s not. He looks a little older than himself: his wrinkles are more pronounced, forming valleys in the corners of his eyes, blue eyes a shade lighter than Bruce’s. His hair is black too, but slightly peppered with grey at the temples and a stray black lock dances in the cold wind, tapping his forehead.  
He looks like Bruce and yet he doesn’t - when Bruce looks at him he sees a man he’s never met before, though he knows those lips, he knows them well. Absently, he touches them with his index finger, traces them from the middle to the corner and from there on, his entire hand follows, resting half on the cheek bone, and half on a temple dusted in grey that he never saw before. He feels warm to the touch and more alive than ever. 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he only says _thank you_ in a half-whisper that almost gets drowned out by the wind.   
The man before him seems troubled, though by what, Bruce can’t tell, but he leans into his hand a little regardless, as if grateful, as if it brings him some sort of comfort.   
“Why this now?” Bruce asks, gaining courage, his other hand placing itself on the other man’s jaw and neck.   
“I never had a face to give.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“You never gave me one. It’s not your fault, neither of us knew what I was. But the face of the Bat _was_ my face. Then you began to love me and I couldn’t give you a face to love.” He says, so matter-of-factly Bruce curses himself for believing he could ever hide anything from him to begin with “So I had to make a face. It takes will, a lot of it and I didn’t know if it could be done.”  
“How long?”  
“For the past seventeen years.”  
Bruce frowns at the stretch of time. What had transpired in between the lines of this story, in that mind of his?  
“Why…?”  
“ _I can love too, Bruce_.” 

The hammer drops but Bruce doesn’t feel the hit, he just feels relief and something he’s never felt before - he might call it love, or he might call it just infatuation, or maybe co-dependency, or so many other things. All he knows is that it’s one of the few raw emotions he’s felt in a long time and he allows it to wash over him and burrow in the hollows of his bones. It threatens to make him feel whole again, perhaps less fractured and he doesn’t really mind it.   
Does he deserve it? To feel whole again?   
Probably not.   
But what if he rides this feeling all the way to the end? All the way to the light and into the darkness at the end of it? If he slips away with it, what is he going to find on the other side? 

_ I can love too.  _

Of course he can, of course he can! 

Warm hands touch his face, pulling him back to the now, back to that hill, to their feet in the snow, to the empty sound of the January wind. 

In the distance, happy voices yell his name through the darkness. Women and men’s voices blend in together, drunk and excited. They can't see him from the house, he is too far away and the night is too dark. Even if they would, so what? He deserves this, they both do, for once.   
He closes his eyes and leans in, surrendering into the promise of the lips that wait for him to close the gap between their bodies. 

The rustle of fabric fills the space around him and he’s enveloped in shadows, in the warmth provided by the cape and he swims up through that river of darkness to meet the only person who has seen him weak, violent and broken and loved him still, in spite of it all. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
